


this is me trying

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Madi dies, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, and fuck you jason rothenberg, but im doing free labor on ao3 to fix all of that, fuck canon lmao, me next the fuck!, no rights for spuglykru, not my best insult but my brain going BONK BONK hammer hammer, this is a darker fic than i usually write so head the tags, this show is finally over and the earth is healing, we know in canon clarke is a raging homicidal maniac high on mama bear hormones, who isnt allowed to feel anything or break, yes those are also trigger warnings, youre welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: “I’m showing you mercy by letting you keep one, but I won’t for much longer.” Russell moves to stand behind the two of them, aiming the gun forward. He motions in between Madi and Bellamy lazily. “Pick the one you want to save.”“I — I can’t,” Clarke starts shaking her head. She stammers, tasting bile at the back of her throat, and her fingers curl into fists, digging into the fresh cuts she finds in her palm. The sting keeps her alert, grounds her back to the moment. “I won’t.”Russell repeats the same movement as before, waving the barrel of the gun between both of them. His eyes darken, his voice growing impatient, “Choose, now, or they’re both dead.”“It’s okay,” Bellamy promises, vehemently, as Madi’s cries grow louder, just blubbering apologies and compromises. His gaze is heavy on hers, understanding. Clarke presses her lips together, sniffing, her lungs stuttering on her next inhale. She can’t look away from him, from his resigned assurance, his silent reverence, his persistent forgiveness. “It’s okay.”↬ Madi dies, and Clarke finds herself back on earth, struggling to move on.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & Madi
Comments: 117
Kudos: 296





	this is me trying

**Author's Note:**

> IM FREEEEEEEEEEeE!!!!!!!!!! WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY FUCKING LIFE
> 
> the 100 dead and rotting in the ground as it should be but bellarke will live on forever. anyway, the premise of this started out as me making a joke on the bird app. then i couldnt let it go. isnt that how the best of my fics start?? yes i cried writing this shit was cathartic bro
> 
> title by taylor swift as always but its been the archer on constant depression loop for the past three days yaaasss i love having faulty neurotransmitters  
> poems by mary oliver, lana rafeala (who i accidentally forgot to credit initially in my haste and refusion to proofread) & venomousvelvet

⇼

『 _To live in this world, you must be able to do three things:_

_to love what is mortal;_

_to hold it_

_against your bones knowing_

_your own life depends on it;_

_and, when the time comes to let it go,_

_to let it go._ 』

⇼

Clarke failed the test. She failed the test, but now Raven is taking it and she is here. On her knees, her palms scraped from being pushed over onto rough terrain. The back of her neck throbs from the but of a gun that slammed into it earlier, but it’s distant, dull. Her cheeks are wet, and there’s no sound except for the rapid drum of her heartbeat, pulsing like a wave. 

Someone slams their foot into her rib cage, knocking the air from her lungs as she slumps over onto her side, gasping for breath. The pain makes everything come back in focus with force as she blinks at the darkness, the two people on the ground and tied up not even ten feet away from her. 

Madi cries softly, her brave, brave girl. She struggles against the rope holding her hands together behind her back, but it’s no use. Beside her, Bellamy seems eerily calm. He’s on his knees too, blood caked to the side of his face. His brown eyes are on hers, imperceptibly widened, insistent, a small jut of his chin to ask if she’s okay. 

It takes her a second, still struggling for breath, but she manages to nod back. Then someone grabs her by the back of her jacket, lifting her back up roughly so she’s sitting, legs folded beneath her. Her mouth feels like cotton, tastes like metal. Her eyes can’t stop flitting between them, never settling anywhere too long. Her daughter. Her best friend. 

“Choose,” the man hisses in her ear, the hand now in her hair tightening painfully, and it all suddenly comes crashing back in. He asked her this, before. She took the test. She _failed_ the test. Wells, he showed up. He asked her to do better, and she couldn’t. She couldn’t, no matter how badly she wanted to, not when Russell took Madi. War was the only choice. She failed and then there was Sheidheda, promises of taking the Commander of Death’s power once and for all, the realisation he didn’t just take her daughter. Then — then this came, the same question. She refused. A sharp pain bloomed at the back of her skull. The world went black for a moment. “ _Choose_ , or they both die.”

“Just kill me,” Clarke croaks out, and it takes her eyes a second longer to lift up towards Russell. Not Russell. It doesn’t matter. She swallows thickly, a dazed look on her face. Her daughter. Her best friend. There’s only one choice she can make. She slumps in his hold, resigning. “Take me instead.”

The man laughs, grip so tight on the back of her head she winces. Then he releases her. For a second, she is blinded by the light from one of the searchlights in the distance as he moves out of the way to stretch to his full height.

“I’ve often wondered,” he starts, smiling eerily delighted. Clarke’s chest constricts with terror as she watches him, heart squeezing painfully with every little move he makes. “What it would take to break you.” Admiration and resentment blend together on his scarred face as he reverently claims, “ _Wanheda_.”

In this moment, she knows that no matter what — there’s no way out of this. Nobody is coming to save them. What’s left of their people is fighting a war they can’t win, and this man, in front of her, this believer of ancient false Gods from different planets and otherly times, he’s not going to stop. Not until he gets what he wants. Her eyes burn with tears, but her pulse almost seems to slow down, peace washing over her as she realizes this is the end. In her heart she knows this is the easiest choice she’s ever made.

“Kill me,” she begs. “I choose me. Kill me, _please_.”

Russell chuckles, coldly. He stops pacing, crouching down in front of her. He keeps his distance, but he’s close enough for her to see the animosity taking shape in his eyes. “Others have foolishly tried and failed to do so before. I won’t make that same mistake.” He reaches out, wiping away a lonesome tear about to drip from her chin with his thumb. His fingers ghost along her jaw, the hair of the back of her neck standing up straight as he weaves his hand into her short hair. He yanks her head back, so her neck’s exposed and she has to strain to still look at the scowl on his face. Her chest heaves up and down heavily, but she refuses to look away from him. “They were foolish, trying to kill the monster from the outside. I’m going to break you from _within_.” 

Clarke wants to protest, tell him there’s nothing left to break. Wants to trash, spit at his face, curse at him to _go float himself_. Wrestle the gun from his grip and put a bullet in his brain. Her daughter wimpers, drawing her attention briefly. Her eyelashes are clumped together from the tears, her whole body shaking. Clarke realizes Madi’s scared, not for herself, but for her mom. 

Suddenly Russell releases his grip and rises to his feet, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “I’m going to take what you love most in the world, and then when you have nothing left to fight for, you are going to give me your power willingly.”

“No,” she breathes, the word tasting like salt. Her eyes won’t focus on anything, her brain foggy. Everything seems to move in slow-motion. If the choice is between Bellamy or Madi, if they’re here because of _her_ , how is she supposed to pick? How is she supposed to be okay with losing either of them?

His nostrils flare, seemingly getting bored. “I’m showing you mercy by letting you keep one, but I won’t for much longer.” Russell moves to stand behind the two of them, aiming the gun forward. He motions in between Madi and Bellamy lazily. “Pick the one you want to save.”

“I — I can’t,” Clarke starts shaking her head. Doom blooms from the middle of her chest, spreading to the tips of her fingers and the bottom of her toes, paralyzing her. She stammers, tasting bile at the back of her throat, and her fingers curl into fists, digging into the fresh cuts she finds in her palm. The sting keeps her alert, grounds her back to the moment. Gritting, “I _won’t_.”

Russell repeats the same movement as before, waving the barrel of the gun between both of them. His eyes darken, his voice growing impatient, “Choose, _now_ , or they’re both dead.”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy promises, vehemently, as Madi’s cries grow louder, just blubbering apologies and compromises, saying her name. His gaze is heavy on hers, understanding. Clarke presses her lips together, sniffing, her lungs stuttering on her next inhale. She can’t look away from him, from his resigned assurance, his silent reverence, his persistent forgiveness. “It’s okay.”

“Choose,” Russell roars, shoving the barrel harshly into the back of Madi’s skull. The small girl startles, letting out a loud sob as she squeezes her eyes shut, her lips trembling. Panicked, Clarke screams, pleads, “No, no, no.”

She tries to move closer, tries to plant her hands on the ground and pull herself forward, get to her, but one of Russell’s lackeys pulls her back by the collar of her jacket. It’s useless. She’s powerless, out of control. Her whole body shakes with the realisation.

“I’m going to kill you,” Bellamy barks loudly but all it earns him is a swift kick in the side, causing him to double over forward onto his face, before rolling onto his back. There’s a glimpse of his wrists, bloody from straining against the rope. He spits red at the other man’s feet, stubborn as always, gravel stuck to his cheek. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

Russell plants his boot on Bellamy’s throat, pressing down hard enough to have him wheezing with each breath. He lifts his gaze to Clarke, pointing his gun at Madi without looking, taunting her. “Choose.” 

“Mom,” Madi pleads, pained and terrified, drawing her attention. Clarke feels like her body is not her own, like she’s not inside of it, but hovering above it. A strand of hair is plastered to her wet cheek, her shoulder slouching forwards. All the fight has left her. Her heart breaks over and over, each time she goes through it in her head and reaches the same conclusion. 

“Clarke, look at me,” Bellamy demands, rough but authoritative. Her eyes snap to his, and she finds it, right there. He knows, just as she does — there’s only one way this should end. Madi is so young. She loves her so much. She’s her child, her baby. She would do anything for her, including this. His brown eyes soften impossibly. “It’s _okay_.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Russell starts, snarling, digging his boot in harder until Bellamy’s grunting in pain as he fires a warning shot at the ground just beside Madi’s legs. The girl screams, and the gunshot echoes, an invisible force reverberating through Clarke’s bones. Her heart stops, and then it starts again.

He’s her best friend in the entire world, the only one who truly understands and accepts every part of her, the good and the bad and the very worst. She loves him, she loves him so much it aches. It aches, and it aches. It’s so unfair they never got their time, never got their peace, that she never got to tell him when it wasn’t a goodbye. There’s so many things left unsaid, so many almosts and what ifs. If this was between her and him she wouldn’t even have had to think about it, but it’s not. It’s not and her blood runs cold just thinking about losing him, about losing yet another part of her, but she _can’t_ choose him, not when—

“Madi,” she blurts out, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. Her blue eyes spring open, boring into Bellamy’s — a silent apology. His brow unfurrows, an unfamiliar tranquility washing over him. A choked sob spills from her lips, and her voice shakes. “I want to save Madi.”

“Get up,” the other man orders, taking his foot off of Bellamy’s neck. Grudgingly, rolling onto his side and using his elbow to push himself up, he does. Terror starts to prick at every one of her nerve endings, mounting with every passing second, stabbing at her heart. She lived because of him, and now he’s dying because of her. 

For a split second, the world grows impossibly quiet. Russell takes the safety off his gun, pressing it against Bellamy’s temple. His eyes flit over to the small girl beside him, sagged over helplessly as she weeps loudly, her voice scratchy and thick from overuse, begging silently for everything to stop. “Madi,” he says, managing to sound comforting and demanding at the same time, “Close your eyes.” 

Clarke finds his strong gaze again, shaking her head lightly as her body grows numb, a nameless dread engulfing her. “It’s okay,” he echoes again, desperate, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he is her. He manages a shaky smile, and she holds her breath as Russell’s index finger starts to move on the trigger. 

At the last moment, Russell switches directions, aiming the gun at Madi instead. There’s no time to process, to protest. One shot, and the small child is dropping to her side with a loud, deafening thud. A small trail of blood trickling down her forehead, disappearing into her long dark hair. For a moment, time seems to stand still. 

The last thing Clarke hears is the scream that rips from her own throat, her whole body collapsing until her cheek’s pressed into the dirt, Madi’s lifeless eyes staring into hers. 

⇼

Clarke goes to the sea. She tried the Dropship first, but it felt like a graveyard and she’s tired of being chased by ghosts. It takes them a few days to find her. Clarke almost thinks it’s funny. The entire world, finally theirs, the earth at their feet, and all she can think about is the people in the sky, who she’s lost. 

It never felt like an immediate occurrence, not being fine. it was a gradual decline, blow after blow, building and building, chipping away at every last bit of her — suddenly she wasn’t.

Everything hurts. It hurts to breathe, to think. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Madi’s face; the ice blue thinly circling her dull pupils, the black sticking her hair to her pale face, her slightly parted mouth. She _feels_ that way again. Incapacitated, agony ripping her open from the inside out, paralyzing pain clawing up her throat. So she doesn’t sleep. She barely eats. She feels sick. And exhausted. Embraces all of it with open arms. She doesn’t want to fight anymore.

Clarke knows loss like an old friend by now, is intimately intertwined with grief even, but the one thing that’s always kept her moving forward was the promise of a better day. That if they did better, and were better, that someday they’d be rewarded. Now she knows there isn’t one, not for her at least, that there’s no purpose to any of this, no relief on the horizon no matter what test they fail or don’t fail. She stops telling herself it will get better. She’s no longer using honey to soothe her wounds, instead welcomes the sting of salt. 

The dream, all those years ago, she made it. She chose this. Every decision she’s ever made, it led her here. This is reality now. 

Once they find her, Bellamy comes to her. She expected this, prepared for it even. She ran, like she always does. She’ll keep running, hoping that one day he’ll get tired of waiting. But she liked the sea, the calm of the waves and the salty air, and she was too tired to keep going. Besides, today is not that day. Today is not the day Clarke wears him down. Sometime soon, she’ll try again. Try to reach the end of the earth and hope he doesn’t follow. 

Her feet are in the water, despite the chill in the air, swirling up her ankles and soaking into the bottom of her pants. A gust of wind tousles her hair, whisking it across her face briefly. She stares up at the stars, bright in the sky. “I don’t want to talk.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and he stands farther away from her than he would otherwise. _Good_ , she thinks, bitterly. “You can just listen.”

Clarke drowns out the first half of what he’s saying, lets the quiet baritone pass through her like the ebb and flood of the waves in front of her. There’s nothing he could tell her that would make any of this better. It’s not until he says, “If it was me, if it was between you and Octavia—", that her head harshly snaps to look at him. 

His words are putting her on edge. It’s dangerous, the way they make her feel, like a palmful of lit matches about to fall into a pool of lighter fluid. 

His brown skin is covered in a pale hue of moonlight, some of his scuff starting to grow back. A cut on his forehead is beginning to heal, the skin around it an angry red. His hair is too long, curling around his ears, the nape of his neck. She hates him.

“Don’t,” she bites, calmly, even though he’d already stopped speaking immediately at the dark look on her face. “Don’t you fucking dare lie to me right now.” He swallows hard, his adam’s apple visibly moving up and down. Her voice is dripping acid. “Don’t tell me you would’ve picked her when you and I both _know_ —“ Clarke cuts herself off, before her voice can break, shaking her head vehemently. 

She glares at the water covering her feet. She thinks of Monty’s algae, of doing what had to be done. He’s made the choice before, and it wasn’t Octavia. He’s better than her, in every way possible, and she won’t stand here — she won’t stand here and be _lied_ to. She won’t let him make this right. Not this time.

“Clarke,” he starts, wrecked, and she feels the heat of his hand, reaching out but not touching her, just hovering in the air, suspended. He pushes out a frustrated huff of air, his hand dropping back down. “Tell me what I can say, what I can do.”

Octavia didn’t die. If she strains, Clarke can hear the low murmur of her voice by the campfire. Maybe if she did, he could try and begin to comprehend what she is going through. But then Clarke reminds herself it’s probably selfish, sick even, to wish that upon someone for no other reason but to feel understood. Reminds herself that she doesn’t _really_ want Octavia to die, that she should be happy for him that she isn’t dead. She can’t remember what that’s like, _happy_. She tilts her head back up at the sky, pulls in a deep, slow breath and then decides, “Nothing.”

For a long moment he keeps standing there, the silence tense and unfamiliar between them. Bellamy makes a move to walk away, probably figuring she needs space, then hesitates. He pulls off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders wordlessly before he finally gives up, retreating towards his friends. She hadn’t realized she’d been shivering. 

_Stupid boy,_ she thinks, _always giving everything away_. 

⇼

On her way to the ocean, she made a detour. She found the buried car and the old whiskey stashed in the dashboard. It tastes like death, but she guesses someone did die, and ultimately that’s kind of funny to her after she’s downed half of it down. 

Clarke’s trailing down the shore, aimlessly. Once she sees the kindling flames of a beginning campfire in the distance, she turns on her heels, heading back into the opposite direction. They’ll just try to make her eat something, with their judgemental stares and the low whispers they think she doesn’t hear. 

They’re mad with her. Not because she picked Madi, but because she didn’t pick Bellamy. It’s the same thing. Clarke’s mad at them, too. She didn’t _ask_ them to follow her down here. They could’ve stayed anywhere on this godforsaken planet, or, hell, they even could’ve stayed in Sanctum and they all would’ve been better for it. 

Yet, where Bellamy goes, there they do, and they all know who he follows. So she lets them be mad. Doesn’t try to fix any of it. Maybe they’ll finally get tired of chasing her, and she hopes that even if she eventually can’t exhaust him, perhaps it’ll be enough to tire them. Maybe he’ll listen to them. _Maybe_. 

“Clarke!” Someone yells out of nowhere, and she nearly loses her balance on the large piece of driftwood she’s carefully treading, arms spread out on either side of her. Lowly, she curses under her breath, tightening her fingers around the bottle in her hand. 

She moves off the wood, and this time she does trip on her own feet, collapsing into the sand. Her eyelids flutter shut, and she uses her free hand to rub at her tired eyes. The whole world seems to weigh her down. Everything feels too heavy. Her body. A weight on her chest, on her shoulders, somewhere in between. In her shoes, with every step she takes. Heavy hearted, handed, footed. The whiskey helps, but it’s not enough.

“Are you okay?” It’s Bellamy, closer now, sounding concerned. His hand wraps around her elbow, probably to help her up, but she swats him away. 

“Don’t,” she says, simply, dropping her hand into the sand limply. She lets her fingers sink into the cold ground, taking another swig of the bottle as she holds his gaze. He swallows visibly, watching her, hands twitching at his sides. 

Clarke almost laughs. He won’t leave her alone. See, he still thinks they’re in this together. That, somehow, some ignorant little pact they made years, and planets, and genocides ago, still holds any weight in the world they live in today. 

She looks away from him because even just the memory of it hurts too much, her voice slurring. “Just leave.”

He crouches down by her side, tries to gently unwrap her fingers from the bottle. She tightens her grip, and his brow furrows. “I’m not going to leave you.”

Somehow that strikes her like a slap across the face. Both because she knows that’s the last thing she wanted to hear and because she knows it to be true. Panic twists in her gut. He’s never going to give up. She needs him to, like never before. She needs him. Needs him to just do this. For her. 

But he won’t, and it angers her. God, she’s so fucking angry. All the time now. At everything, at the world, at everyone who followed her, at this weight, holding her down underwater. Numbing everything down as she stays suspended between death and life, flutters between the _almost_ and the _finally,_ fingertips reaching for freedom. She wants everything to go dark already. She wants it to be done. Over.

Bellamy manages to peel her fingers off the glass, tries to start tugging her up from the sand. It scares her, how she almost takes comfort in his touch, in his soothing baritone. “Let’s get you some food, and then—”

“Look at you!” Clarke finally screams, erratic, eyes fliting everywhere. She needs to hurt him, she realizes now. She’s being selfish, allowing him to come back. “I almost killed you. I _would’ve_ killed you!” There’s a beat, the flicker of hurt across his face as the truth starts to settle in his bones. _I wanted to kill you. I wanted it to be you._ His jaw works and she thinks he’s starting to get it now, but it’s not enough. Her face heats, her eyes darkening as she roughly brushes her hair back from her face, spitting the words out. “Do you hate yourself that much? Do you not have any self-worth? It’s _pathetic_.”

He doesn’t deserve this. She told him she would never forget that he was her family again, that she would never make a mistake like she did when she left him in those fighting pits. She said a lot of things. Good intentions, not unlike her words, don’t mean anything. Clarke has told herself so many times that she’d do better, and each time she doesn’t, nothing changes. The world still goes on. 

Somewhere along the line, Clarke has started to realize her list of ways she can do better and a suicide note are the same thing. 

He tosses the bottle into the sand, turning on his heels. A breath of relief pushes it’s way from her lungs as she falls back into the sand, staring up at the darkness and wishing she could reach out and let it consume her. He doesn’t deserve this, but someday he’ll thank her for it. 

⇼

She doesn’t mean for it to happen. 

She’s been going through the motions for days. Sleeping for a few fitful hours before waking up in cold sweat, unable to breathe. Wandering down the beach, or into the woods. Laying down on the sand, staring at the sky. Standing in the water, staring at the horizon. Wishing for something, anything, that can make her feel something else. She can’t remember the last time she spoke to anyone. 

That day, she wakes up later than all of them. They’ve set up tents, but Clarke prefers sleeping outside. Last night’s dinner is wasting away by her feet. She sits up, picking up the bowl and an almost empty bottle of booze she’s sure is courtesy from Murphy, popping off the cap with her thumb. She downs the thin layer on the bottom while dumping out the food into a nearby bush. 

When she finishes, she tosses it into the direction away from their camp while wiping the sheen off her mouth with her free hand. Except her aim’s off, and it doesn’t land on a patch of grass like she’d meant for it to do.

The bottle hits a rock, shattering. Clarke stares at the shards. In the distance, a seagull squawks. Slowly, she sinks down onto her haunches. Her intention is to clean the mess up, before someone gets hurt. Her fingers wrap around one of the bigger pieces, and the pointy end catches her attention as the sunlight reflects off it. It’s close to her opposite wrist, the skin pale and unscarred. She keeps staring, her fingers tightening around the glass as she sucks in a shaky breath. 

For a moment, she considers it. It could be over. It would be so easy, so simple. 

Someone’s voice pulls her down to earth. “Clarke, what the hell is wrong with you?” Bellamy hisses as he knocks the shard from her tight grip, pulling her up into her feet as he presses his fingers over her palm. Blood seeps through the seams and as the loud pounding in her ears fades, pain starts to bloom in the inside of her hand. 

Her mouth feels dry and she can’t find her voice. Not before he sits her down on a log, pressing a piece of cloth to her palm before disappearing briefly. When he returns at her side, he’s holding a needle and thread. His hand is warm as it engulfes hers, pulling it into his lap. 

Silence wraps around them as he works and she can’t stop looking at him. His knees are brushing hers. His nostrils flare as he silently stews, refusing to meet her gaze. Clarke clears her throat, and the hand he’s holding doesn’t feel like her own. She should get up, walk away, but she’s paralyzed. Her heart hammers on loudly. Distantly, she notes, “You’re good at this.”

“My mom was a seamstress, of course I’d be good at this,” he starts off, bitingly, tension in his shoulders, in every small movement he makes. He’s angry, she realizes, but then it’s gone, and he softens, meeting her eye. “I just never had the gall before.” His eyes flit away, and Clarke thinks of a boy named Atom. It seems like a lifetime ago, the first person she killed. “You get used to it,” he solemnly muses, finally, after a pregnant pause, meaning the blood. 

But Clarke thinks, _yeah. You do get used to it._ And she’s tired of just being static.

⇼

“How’s your hand?” He asks her the next day. She’s crouched down by a small creak deep inside the woods, looking for a frog. She saw one this morning, hopping behind the tree lines and disappearing into the woods, and has been listlessly searching for it since. For some reason, the small creature piqued her interest and she wondered where it was heading, if it could still show her something _new_. New things promised the prospect of change, and she could use some of that. She figured this place was her best bet, and he must have followed her. 

Clarke startles, wills her heart to calm down as she turns her head to look at him. Her fingers twitch at her side, stretching the bandage still covering her palm. “Fine.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she feels him move to lower himself into a similar position beside her. Heat radiates off him. “I just wanted to say—” He pauses, briefly touching the outside of her wrist. For a moment, there’s just the sound of groundwater rippling in front of them, the distant chirping of a bird. He’s worried about her. She can tell. She can _feel_ it, rolling off of him in waves. Bellamy scrapes his throat quietly. “This world is better with you in it.” 

A mirthless chuckle rumbles in her chest. “I think a lot of people would beg to differ.” She sinks forward, onto her knees. She glances at him, and for a moment there, she hates him. He still looks at her like _she_ is something new, something promising. He must know she’s empty, that she has nothing left to give. “Dead people, mostly.”

He swallows, hard, then corrects himself, his voice small as if protecting something precious. “ _My_ world is better with you in it.”

Silence follows. Clarke stares at the little slimy moss-colored frog across the stream from her. Her eyes light up, imperceptibly. It croaks quietly, unknowing of all the bad things out there in the world, then jumps into the water, disappearing. Nothing new, then. Just more longing for things she can’t have. She doesn’t want to hurt Bellamy, but she also can’t lie to him. She wishes the words would magically fix everything, that he could be more important than whatever it is she feels inside of her, this big, dark void threatening to swallow her whole but never following through. 

Her eyes burn, and her blood runs cold, but she swallows, inhaling sharply through her nose. She pushes it away. “That’s not enough.”

His voice is rough, pained, when he speaks next, “I’ll never be enough, huh?”

He moves to get up, and by following him with her eyes, she notices he didn’t come alone. There’s people, far enough away so she knows they’re not listening in on their conversation, but close enough for her to know it’s not a coincidence. They all blur together, and it doesn’t matter. Guilt chips away at her insides, but it’s dull and distant, and she finds she doesn't care as much as she should, but she knows she should at least say sorry. “Bellamy—”

She knows she should say sorry, but what she wants to say starts with his name. _Bellamy. Don’t blame yourself. It’s not that you’re not enough, it’s that you’re wrong. It’ll hurt when I’m gone. But it’ll pass, like everything does. And once you’re free, once you realize I never deserved you, then you’ll know. I don’t make anything better. Everything I touch gets ruined in the end. Survival has wrecked me, has made me grow thorns in places that used to be soft, that do nothing but hurt the people who come close to me. You are not supposed to be collateral damage. You are worth so much more than that. You are bigger than me, in so many ways. Your heart, it’s gotten bruised and battered and scarred, but remember how it never stopped beating? Remember how each time, there was still a little part left untouched? You are so strong, you have so much to give. Someone like me won’t be the one to stop it from drumming on, not after everything. You’ll be okay._

He doesn’t want to hear any of it. “No. Octavia said—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. His jaw works, and then his face shutters, and he sets his own feelings aside once again. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clarke turns her head back to the water, staring at her reflection in the clear stream. She doesn’t even recognize the person looking back at her. Her skin is pale and fragile, her cheeks sunken. She wishes that would make her feel something.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand what it feels like to walk into a forest and hope it lights itself on fire. To look at a river and want nothing more than the water to drown itself dry. To chase frogs and hope it’s devoured by a hawk before she catches it. To feel so alone, you wish such horrible things upon others just to feel understood.

“I love you,” he tries, as if it’s a last resort, as if it’s the last thread holding him together. Clarke digs her fingernails into the bandage wrapped around her palm until she feels it grow warm and wet. 

The last person she loved died. She wasn’t the first. How can Clarke ever love again? She’s a monster. There’s no room inside of her to love anyone. When grief is spilling out from every seam. When misery is stretching even the toughest parts of her thin. When every breath she takes feels like a never-ending struggle. When her heart just beats a broken drum of her name. _Madi, Madi, Madi._

“I don’t love you back,” she tells him, numbly, and when she sees the disbelief in his eyes, she can’t help but be firmer about it. She refuses. “I don’t love _you_.” 

Her voice carries, and she feels Raven’s eyes burning in her back. Sees his eyes flit over the top of her blonde head for a moment. He blanches. 

Her confession lies heavy between them. 

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, softly, even though it’s not. She really does hate him, the parts of him left untouched enough for him to still _want_ to love. Love is not a choice, after all, it’s a decision you make every day. It’s intentional. He’s choosing her, despite knowing she’s a lost cause. Telling her it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t choose _him_ , like she hasn’t done so many times before. His brown eyes bore into hers, and his hand covers her shoulder briefly. “I’m still not going to give up on you, Clarke.”

She thinks of the frog, how it disappeared so easily into nothing at all, and she doesn’t have it in her to tell him he should. 

⇼

Clarke has a good day.

The sun is starting to warm the earth gradually now it’s out longer, and in a moment of weakness, she lets them convince her to come into the water with them. She floats on her back, splashes water at Emori and lets Bellamy dunk her underwater until her lungs burn. She swims, and smiles, and listens to their stupidly exaggerated heroic retellings of their time at the Dropship, and the Mountain, Camp Jaha. For once, the memories don’t sting with loss, but instead just fill her with the comfort of things gained. Her skin pinks up, her shoulders burn, and her mouth perpetually tastes like salt, but by the time the sun goes down, she feels tired in a deserved, physical way. Her muscles are sore, her belly full with roasted rabbit. It’s nice. 

Once she lays down by the fire, hair still damp down her shoulders, she realizes that today was the first time she’s laughed since Madi died. That night, she cries herself to sleep. 

⇼

She wakes up in the middle of night to loud shouting voices. It takes her a moment to reorient herself, realizing she must’ve fallen asleep on the beach at one point, watching the constellations high in the night sky. Clarke sits up, sluggish with sleep, hugging her knees to her chest as she strains her ears.  
  


_“... not leaving her behind.”_

_“... self-destruct… take you…”_

_“How do you see… nothing good...”_

She presses her mouth against her knees, ignoring the way her entire body is shivering as she watches the wind pick up some sea foam, setting it down a few feet ahead. In the distance, a wave breaks. Her knuckles are red from the cold and she folds them beneath her thighs.

_“... sick… stand by… watching you…”_

_“..selfish… of her victims..”_

_“... beyond saving… not your responsibility...”_

The voices eventually quiet down and it’s another few minutes before she finds him walking down the beach like a man on a mission. He strolls right past her, not even noticing her presence and her voice croaks as she calls out for him. “Bellamy.”

He keeps walking, and she scrambles up to go after him. Finally, she catches up with him, half out of breath from jogging, reaching for his shoulder. He stiffens, jerking away from her touch. 

“Are you..” She hates when people ask her that, so she snaps her mouth shut. Instead, she hugs herself, settling on, “What was all of that about?”

“Nothing,” he sniffs, wiping at his cheek roughly with the pad of his palm. Her heart hurts for him. She doesn’t know why they were fighting, but she’s not so stupid to think it hadn’t anything to do with her. 

They don’t understand. Don’t understand his unwavering loyalty, his uncompromising forgiveness, and blind belief. Not when it comes to someone like her, who just keeps taking, hurting, sacrificing him. They’ll never understand, because they weren’t there. 

All those countless times, standing side by side, sharing burdens and tragedies. Taking each other’s pain, shouldering each other’s weight. The profound understanding between them, that for every way they were intrinsically different, there was one more way in which they were exactly alike. She wishes more than anything that he could let go of her. He stopped owing her anything a long time ago. They’re his family. And she doesn’t want to be the reason he loses that too. 

She hesitates. Perhaps she should leave it alone, but she also knows that’s not really an option. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

He just stands there, frowning at the ground with a distant look in his eyes, teeth gritted together. Clarke wants nothing more but to fix this, fix him. She wants to give him what he gave her once. A little bit of peace, for however long it lasts. “It’s okay, Bellam—”

“How can you even stand to look at me?” She startles at the way he snaps at her, and his face crumples, more tears falling down his cheeks. His shoulders start to shake as he looks away from her briefly, before turning back again. His eyes are wild and dark, his voice rough and trembling. “It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me who he shot, it should’ve been me who d—” 

He chokes on the words, and her chest constricts. A part of her feels relief, at him not finishing that line of thought. Clarke leans up to hug him quickly, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down until his face is buried in her neck. He inhales shakily, breath warm against her skin, tears forming a wet patch on her jacket. 

His soft cries are muffled by her hair, his hands finally coming up to rest on her lower back as he lets her take some of his weight. He’s heavy, and overly hot, and her legs are straining to stay upright, but she can do this for him. “It should’ve been me.”

No matter what she never wants him to think this is about him. He didn’t break her. Russell did. She didn’t want it to be him either. She didn’t want to choose, but she did. She did, and now Madi’s dead. And even if she can’t fix herself—

Maybe… Clarke pulls back slightly, looking at his face. The tear tracks down his face, the way his mouth trembles and his wild curls stick to his forehead. At the guilt, and the pain, and the same kind of broken she feels all the time, the same kind of broken she worries she won’t ever not feel, and then she’s pushing up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his. For a moment, he kisses her back. He tastes like salt. 

He pushes her away suddenly, then, a stricken look on his face. “We can’t do this.”

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it. Her heart pounds loudly and she’s not sure what to say. She doesn’t even know why she did it. That’s a lie. Part of her _wanted_ to ruin them. Her last respite, her final chance to feel something. Use him for her own selfish gains, and when inevitably that didn’t work, break them apart once and for all. With no regard for his feelings, for his needs and wants, because that’s who she is. Clarke is a terrible person. She takes, and she takes, and she takes, until there’s nothing left. _Wanheda_. 

There’s nothing to say, because deep down, she knows he knows all of that. He knows that even though Russell tried, there was never anything to break. She’s cold, and empty, and _death_ , and she’s never been capable of loving anything but her own self-interest. Knows that no matter how many second chances he gives her, how many times he forgives her, how many times he gives her the benefit of the doubt or tries to convince himself that maybe this time it’ll be different — she’ll always end up disappointing him. He knows.

“It wasn’t fair of you to do that, Clarke.” He curses, scrubbing his hands over his face before kicking at some sand aimlessly. He’s right. It wasn’t fair, and she still did it. Knowing how he feels, _what_ he feels for her. Anger rolls off of him in waves, and when she meets his eye she actually flinches at the pain reflecting back at her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m..” She forces out, her voice hoarse and her eyes slightly widened from shock. Her lips are still warm, but something cold starts to sprout in the middle of her chest, freezing her to the spot. 

His eyes brim with fresh tears, and she’d hoped that maybe this would be the final straw. That maybe, this, seeing her best friend completely destroyed by her hand, maybe that would kindle some spark hidden somewhere deep inside of her. Remind her she’s alive, that she’s still breathing. Instead she just feels nothing. Bellamy’s face hardens, and then he’s shaking his head to himself, looking away from her. “I can’t do this right now.”

It’s a dismissal. He wants space. Clarke presses her lips into a thin line, nodding as she turns away from him, wandering off into the direction she came from. He doesn’t try to stop her. 

⇼

Clarke doesn’t know how she ends up there. She had a nightmare. Just another nightmare, one like any other, but her ears won’t stop ringing from Madi’s screams and her eyes won’t focus. She’s wandering down the beach, and everything is blurry and deafeningly silent, and for the first time since she got here, she decides to climb up the rock formation near the end of it, instead of turning back. 

Her hands and knees are scraped by the time she gets to the top, staring out at the infinite abyss that’s the sea from the jagged edge of the cliff. The clouds are a veil hiding the sun, and it’s colder up here, the wind harsher and the air more brisk. She realizes she left her jacket near the camp, and that there’s blood trickling down her elbow, and that the ocean makes her feel infinitesimally small. 

Clarke inhales shakily, her eyes following a flock of birds disappearing behind the thick fog of clouds. All this hurt, all this grief and guilt, it makes her feel so heavy, so important, but really she is nothing. She is no one. All it would take is one step, one tiny little step, and the world would be exactly the same tomorrow, except she would be free. 

She _wants_ to be free. She doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. She doesn’t want to wake up from a nightmare where she has to watch her daughter die, but she doesn’t want to live in a world where someday she won’t even get to have that. She doesn’t want to move on, doesn’t want to risk forgetting her. The worst days are when she sleeps peacefully, where for a blissful moment after waking up she feels content before it all comes crashing back in. 

Maybe there’s a way they can still be together, where she can still brush back her dark hair and press her lips against her pale forehead. Where they can walk hand in hand, and fall asleep side by side. Where she can still hear her laugh, and see her blue eyes crinkle at the edges with joy. A world where Clarke isn’t the reason her daughter is dead. Where she can love without being punished for it. 

She takes a step closer to the verge, peering down at the dark, endless depth just within her reach. The rhythmic pulse of the waves sloshing against the rocks, a muted metronomic murmur calling her name. The sea is it’s own master, boundless and unending. It’s mesmerizing. Without realizing, she shuffles even closer. 

Fingers digging into her biceps make the world come back into focus, two strong hands turning her away from the ocean. He’s yelling something at her, but she can hardly get her eyes to focus on his face, let alone try and process whatever it is he’s saying. Her brain feels foggy, her pulse sluggish. Her skin tingles and her eyes flit down to his hands, brow furrowing with confusion. How is he touching her, when her body feels intangible? 

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, and it gets him to shut up. His hands fall back, but it’s like his fingers are still pressing into her flesh. She takes a step backwards, part of the rock under her heel crumbling and for a second her heart stops in the same way she can tell his does. “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t know if she’s actually said anything out loud, because his face is blank, so she repeats herself, shaking her head lightly, ¨ I’m sorry, but it’s for the best.”

The top of the cliff is isolated, except for the two of them. Now that he’s here, the sky suddenly feels suffocating, the dark clouds pressing in as if to crush her. He shouldn’t be here. She’s so close. 

Bellamy’s eyes flash with a persistent desperation. “If you jump, I’ll jump too.”

_No_. He’s supposed to live. He was always supposed to live. Not for her, or for his sister, or anyone else, but for him. Why is he making this so hard? It could be so easy. Her face scrunches up, and she can’t help but spit, “That’s emotional manipulation.”

He motions between her and the edge of the cliff, frustration coating his tone before his mouth sets into a hard line. “And this isn’t?”

She didn’t ask to be followed. She didn’t ask for him to be here. She didn’t ask for him to hold on. 

“Fine,” Clarke decides, beyond caring. He can make his own decisions. This isn’t on her. She turns around, facing the vastness in front of her, the clouds now just a partial canopy as the sun starts to filter through. The sea glitters below them. “Jump with me.”

“Okay,” he agrees, easily. Bellamy moves to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. A surge of irritation runs through her at his next words. “On the count of three?”

“I swear to God, if you say together—” The rock suddenly crumbles underneath her feet, and one of them slips off the edge. Her heart stutters for the split second she seems to be suspended, and then it abruptly stops. Bellamy’s arm is around her waist, pulling her away from the brink off the cliff. 

Her face falls as her pulse wildly and erratically seems to try and collect it’s bearings, and his eyes soften. Doesn’t he realize it’s disappointment, she feels, not relief? His chest is heaving up and down heavily, his words breathless as he combs her hair behind her ear. “It’s okay.”

Clarke is mad. She’s so fucking mad. She just wants to die. Can’t he tell she just wants to die? Everything hurts, every single second of the day, and she needs it to stop. None of this is _okay._ It never was. It’s not fair she had to choose, and it’s not fair she lost Madi anyway. It’s not fair he’s so kind to her, and it’s not fair he won’t just let her _go_. Clarke is mad, so she pounds at his chest. “Stop saying that! Stop saying it’s okay when it’s not.”

Bellamy doesn’t even flinch. His arms fold around her shoulders, trying to pull her into his chest, and she almost gives in, leaning into his embrace for a second before the pain comes rushing back in, shocking her system, and she’s shoving him away. All this pain, straining her, gripping her tightly, she needs it to stop.

Her blue eyes shimmer with tears that well from some place deep inside her, her lungs stuttering as she stares at him. God, won’t it ever just end? She can’t breathe, this weight pressing down on her chest, and she stumbles to the ground, barely catching herself on her hands. A sob spills from her lips, shaking her body, and he’s right there, kneeling down in front of her, hands on her shoulders, grounding her. “It was an impossible decision.” 

Her eyes find his, blue on brown, tears falling down her cheeks as she struggles for air, and she can barely see him through the haze, holding onto his voice like a life-line. “And this time, choosing to kill me was the _right_ choice, Clarke.”

Her body gives in before she does, her forehead falling forward to press against his shoulder. Her lips quiver, small sobs and gasps escaping through the suppressed sounds of hiccups. His arm bands around her back, his free hand weaving his way into the hair at the back of her head as he rocks her gently. 

“You know,” she rasps, pulling back enough to look at him. He’s holding her up at this point, all her limbs slack with exhaustion, her mind still running a mile a minute. “Someone once told me my life could be more than that.”

Confusion graces his face, and she clarifies. “More than impossible decisions and tragic endings.” She wishes she still believed in that. How could she? Even during the test, when all that was asked of her was not to kill, she failed him. She failed him, and she killed Madi, and Raven and Octavia had to come and save them. “ _Wells._ Despite everything he always believed in a better day. He was so brave. And he still died.”

Wells, the best person she’s ever known. He died, but somehow, like some cruel joke, the universe won’t let her. Maybe not so much the universe as fucking Bellamy Blake. 

“He was,” Bellamy agrees, and she can see the puzzle pieces falling into place slowly. Reverence takes over his expression, and Clarke has to look away from him. “But I think you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

“Brave?” She spits out, coated in disbelief and disgust, glowering up at him. She doesn’t deserve to be called such a word. 

“I think it’s brave that you get up in the morning even if every night you go to bed wishing not to wake up. I think it’s brave that you keep on living, even if you don’t know how to anymore. I think it’s brave that you decide to fight.” He takes a quick, sharp breath, eyes flitting over her face. “I know that there are days when you feel like giving up, but I think it’s brave that you never do.”

She’s weak, and pathetic. If she wasn’t such a coward, she would’ve been long gone by now. If it wasn’t for him, it would’ve been today. “What’s the point?”

“Maybe there is no point,” he answers truthfully, surprising her. His forehead wrinkles, and each word he says has her fighting a rising panic. “Maybe there are no good guys. Maybe there is no doing better. Maybe this is all there is for us.” His voice breaks as she realizes they’ve been fighting the same useless war with the purpose of it all, although he doesn’t waver, “But you have me.” His hand slides from the back of her neck to cup her jaw, thumb swiping over her cheekbone as he promises, intense and resolute, “I got you.”

Something in the middle of her chest cracks wide open. It’s agonizing and clarifying at the same time, unraveling her from the inside out. A paradox at it’s core — she doesn’t want to stay, because of what she might have to face if she does, but she also doesn’t want to go, because of what she might leave behind if she does. Since she lost Madi, she’s been pushing everything and everyone away, hiding from the truth. The truth that paralyzes her with a fear she can’t even begin to describe. 

Without her knowing, fresh, hot torrents of grief have started to course down her cheeks. A sob fights it’s way from her body as she desperately clings onto him, fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt. It’s against his neck with his arms wrapped tightly around her that she finally confesses, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’ll never be alone, okay?” His hands move to her biceps, making her face him, and his grip is so hard, she knows he’s leaving marks, trying to grasp the indefinite. His eyes are almost wild, desperate. “Do you hear me?” 

“You don’t understand.” Clarke starts shaking her head, gasping for air. “I need it to stop. I need it to stop, I can’t do this anymore, I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I just want it to be over, I want it to stop—”

“I know,” he interrupts her, steadily, tethering her back to this moment. Just him and her, on this cliff, back on earth. His gaze lightens on her, a mirthless, self-deprecating smile on his lips for just a moment. “I have days like that, too. The reason I hang on is—” He swallows, hard, sniffing before gritting his teeth together briefly, holding back his own tears. “To feel the sun on my skin. To breathe in the ocean air. The scent of the woods after a fresh rain fall, and the taste of freshly roasted boar meat. To hear my sister’s laugh, or to see you smile.” There’s a brief lull in between words, his voice losing some of it’s boldness. “It doesn’t have to be something big, okay?” Clarke stares at him, letting the words wash over her like the waves lap at the shore. “You can start out small.”

It takes a moment for her to process what he’s saying, and then she nods once, and then finds herself keep nodding while he echoes, full of possibility, “You can start out small.”

⇼

He finds her by the beach, watching the sun set behind the horizon, the clear sky blushing pretty shades of pink and orange. Her fingers twitch longingly to paint the view, and it’s something small, but it’s a start.

She can’t bear to look at him. It makes her feel stupid now. Dramatic. Who does she think she is, trying to take her life like that? 

Bellamy’s been sitting next to her in silence for a few minutes, arms wrapped around his knees, before he speaks. “I miss her too.” Clarke freezes, her heart lurching before it starts slamming loudly against the inside of her ribcage. “She had such a nice smile, didn’t she?” The terror stabbing at her chest with his words slowly fades, and then it passes. He opens his palm, revealing a small, thin hollow seashell. It’s almost a pearly opaque, in a light shade of translucent blue, shining brightly even in the tapered rays of the setting sun. It’s pretty. “It reminded me of her.”

Gently, she takes it from him, closing her fingers around it. Her chest aches, and she finds herself scooting closer, leaning her head against his shoulder. They sit like that until the sun has disappeared completely and the night sky has come out of hiding.

“Do you believe that she’s out there, somewhere?” Looking up at the vaste, seemingly empty space filled with glittering, diamond-like stars, this time, she’s not asking for a wish. She’s asking for her prayers to be answered. For a goodbye. For a chance to say ‘I’m sorry’. 

When she asks him about it again, years later, Bellamy will tell her that in that moment, he thought of Madi. He thought of science, that book he read on the Ark once. How earth originated from stardust, continually floating through them even today, directly connecting them to the universe. How it finds its way into plants, into nutrients that they need for everything they do — thinking, moving, growing. Rebuilding and rebuilding their bodies over and over again over their lifetimes. He thought of how much he wanted the answer to be yes. 

“Yes,” he states, definite. And there’s so much in that moment, so much between them that they’re simply not saying because it is too heavy to even have words belong to. This big, heavy amorphous thing that they can’t speak about, nor does it ever leave them alone. This deep dark secret they share, weighing down their breastbones every time they breathe. They can’t speak about it, but it exists. It exists, and it won’t ever go away. But they can’t let it consume them. “I do.” He shifts his head, pressing his mouth against the hair at the top of her head. “And she’s listening. She’s looking out for you, waiting.”

Clarke runs her thumb over the shell, staring at it in her palm. Such a small thing, it could be an ending, or a beginning. “Do you… Would it be okay if we bury this?”

He’s nodding, and she feels it against the side of her head before she gets up onto her knees slowly. Bellamy starts, digging through the sand until there’s a small opening gazing back at them. 

Clarke places the shell into the little space they’ve made, tentatively starting to slide the sand back into place. She watches the shell disappear, and then stares back out at the stars, the little dots of light in the distance shining bright, always there, always looking, waiting for the night to come. And for the first time in a long time she feels completely calm, like the quiet simmering of the waves meeting the crescent-shape shore. Constant.

Gazing up at the dark sky, lights flickering in the distance, Clarke tells her she’s sorry. That she wishes more than anything that she could’ve saved her. That she’s proud of her, and that every day, it feels like half of her is missing. That without her, she would’ve never survived those six years on earth. Clarke tells her she is not going to give up, that for as long as she lives, she’ll _never_ give up. That one day, they’ll be together again. 

She tells her that day should be a long time from now, because Clarke likes to float in the sea while the sun is high in the sky and feel weightless. She likes painting and chasing fireflies and the taste of fresh strawberries, and she likes the way Bellamy’s hand fits around hers. She tells her that the promise of seeing Madi someday again has given her a reason to live, to make the most out of all the time she still has left, so that once they’re together again, she can tell her stories of hope, and healing, and _happiness_. 

“You were her hero, you know that right?” He tells her, after she finishes. 

She sits back, leaning her weight on one hand, using the other to wipe at her cheeks. “I’m nobody’s hero.”

“Maybe not,” he humours her, finding her eye. “Maybe you’re mine.” She must pull a face, because he smiles, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You are. For living from that moment to this one.”

They sit there for a moment, just listening to each other breathe. 

Clarke keeps her eyes on the luminary dots high in the atmosphere, lighting up the darkness. A bolt of anxiety hits her, but she breathes through it. “How can you ever forgive me for what I did?”

He shrugs, half-hearted. “You’ll never have to apologize to me for how you chose to survive.”

“I _am_ surviving,” she agrees, bitterly, because of what it implies. That even without Madi here, she’s alive. She could’ve survived even if she _had_ picked her to die. She could’ve survived even without him here. She thinks it inherently makes her selfish, doesn’t it? Everything she’s been through, and somehow she’s still here. Living. 

“You don’t get to leave me alone,” he says, suddenly, a harsh daring edge to it. “You owe me.”

“Owe you?” She echoes, pulling up her knees as she stares at his side-profile. The furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the clench in his jaw. The moonlight illuminating the freckles splattered across his skin. 

The glimpse of the light at the tunnel, his voice. Telling her to fight. It’s there before he even starts to explain. “I went to Gabriel and I saved your life.” His head snaps to the side to meet her gaze, and his eyes are narrowed, burning helplessly, so much anger shimmering beneath the surface. “I saved your fucking life and you dont get to leave me now, _okay_?” 

She’s not exactly sure where this is coming from, because she hardly thinks this is truly about owing each other anything, except for the fact that maybe he’s scared of the same things as she is. The desolateness of solitude. She takes in a sharp breath, eyes wide on his, but before she even gets to speak, he continues. His voice breaks, the simplest word most difficult to say, “Stay.”

For a long time, Clarke wasn’t sure she even wanted to put herself back together. Letting go of all that sadness, that grief, it would mean she had to redefine herself. Chasing darkness, that’s easy. That’s what she knows, what she’s familiar with. Darkness is what she made a home of, when in reality, she should’ve never let it in. 

It’s so much harder, to choose the light. But she thinks of Madi, of how she would want her to live. She thinks of the small things, and the even smaller steps. She thinks she wants to. _Stay_.

Clarke tentatively puts her hand on top of his knee, watches the tension physically drain from his body like a sigh of indescribable alleviation. “I’m not leaving you.”

He searches her face, and he must realize she means it, because then he’s putting his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. Her cheek rests over his chest, the thumping of his heart a soothing lullaby, it’s harmony leading her to peace.

That night, there’s no nightmares. But, in the morning, Madi’s not erased either. She remembers, and it hurts, but it’s also comforting, something she carries with her forever. 

⇼

One day she wakes up from a few long hours of sleep and realizes someone’s been bringing her breakfast every day, and she’s been eating it. She’s been eating breakfast every day, and there’s still bad days, days where she’s scared she’ll always feel this way. Maybe that’s good. That she’s scared. 

On the good days, she wants to be brave. For him. She watches him as he breaks a piece of bread in half, placing the larger part onto her plate. Her best friend in the entire world, always putting her first even when she asks him not to. Every decent day she feels a little bit more grateful he didn’t give up on her. She swallows a mouthful of eggs, then asks him, quietly, “Why did you never say anything?”

All those times, between the Grounder wars and Mountain Men, the separations and apocalypses, the years of cryo-sleep, the body-jackings and the anomalies. Through time, and space, and planets. Of choosing daughters, and guns pressed to his head.

His eyes raise to meet hers, and for a second he looks puzzled, before he seems to understand. “Sometimes, love isn’t enough. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

She drops the subject because she knows he’s right. Even if she’d known, that he loved her then, it wouldn’t have been enough to change the course of events they went through. All it would’ve given her is more guilt. She had to put Madi first. In the bunker, with Russell. When he did tell her, she wasn’t ready to hear it. She didn’t think she could be loved, that she deserved it. That she was anything more than damaged goods. She’s still not there, not quite yet, but she believes he wouldn’t choose to love her if there wasn’t the smallest piece of her that was worthy. 

The first time she tells him, she waits. She looks up from her sketchbook to watch him. He wanted to start a fire before it got dark, so he’s chopping wood with one of the axes. They spent most of the day exploring the woods, collecting berries, leaves and flower petals to make pigments for her paints. She traces the muscles working in his arms with her eyes, the shades of red and yellow staining his hands, and then hears herself say his name. 

He turns, looking at her, expectant, as he wipes the sweat from his brow with his t-shirt, grabbing a piece of fabric by his shoulder. He tilts his head curiously, a silent question in his expressive eyes that makes her bite her lip in order to keep her mouth from curving into a soft smile. She’s okay. 

She waits, because this is the before. She takes a second look at him, new and unfamiliar, like this. At this time, she doesn’t know what he’ll look like after she tells him. It’s something momentous and natural at the same time. She won’t have him like this again. This, the gentle curiosity in his eyes. The nameless wonder of the unknown. 

She still feels infinitesimal on most days, like she could disappear into thin air at any given notice, incapable of loving someone else completely when she’s damaged and broken. But she can start small, giving herself to him in pieces. Maybe it won’t change anything, not even now, but he deserves to hear it. “I love you.”

It takes a second, but then slowly, Bellamy smiles, big and bright and beautiful, and she knows she did the right thing, admitting it, when something warm flourishes in her chest. 

Once the fire has kindled, and they’re settled against the rough bark of a nearby elm tree, enjoying the warmth, the low glow of merigold light flickering across their faces, he tells her, “They want to leave.”

It takes her a second to remember who he means; sometimes she almost forgets they’re not the only two people on earth, and instead often joined by the rest of his family. Dread trickles down her spine, but she breathes through it, her fingers tightening around his. “Are you going with them?”

He shrugs, his face blank when she shifts to look at him. “They said they want to explore the rest of the world.”

The flames crackle quietly as Clarke takes a moment to process it, ducking her head as her lips press together, strands of hair falling around her face like a curtain. After a minute, she turns back to meet his warm gaze, the corner of her mouth turning up sadly. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

And he nods soberly, understanding. In another life, she would have loved to see the rest of the world, find it in her to forgive all of them, and explore it with him at her side. But in this one, the one she’s built and shaped and carved out for herself, the one on this little peaceful part on the earth by the sea, the one that’s all hers — it’s enough. 

He raises her hand, pressing his lips against her knuckles, tracing the scars with his mouth. “Me too.”

⇼

「 _I promise you one day, flowers will grow from these scars with their roots twisting deep._

 _I’ll show you that even in the most broken of places, life finds a way_.」

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i was sooooooo fucking tempted to go SIKE and make bellamy a ghost in the end who clarke hallucinated all along so she ended up alone anyway but im not heartless like her s7 clone so alas wheres my pullitzer
> 
> im @captaindaddykru on most platforms but dont hold it against me


End file.
